


Not Everyone Can be Artists Can They?

by FrnkityFrnk



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Necrophilia, Sad Ending, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:52:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrnkityFrnk/pseuds/FrnkityFrnk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers so much, so much feeling, but not enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Everyone Can be Artists Can They?

**Author's Note:**

> This is some dark deep shit. So, be ready my friend. (Also my first time posting anything? idk if i did this right, but feedback?)

The only things he remembered were the things that didn't matter of course. When he walked in, he remembers noticing the way the bare mattress dipped in the middle, giving it a used, warn feeling. The way the room had obviously not been used in a while, a film of dust littering the surface of almost everything there.

He remembers his abrupt realization of the only place the person he was looking for could be. He remembers his sudden worry, and panic crawling around in his stomach. He felt an urgency to know what was happening. There wasn't even anything to worry about was there? - But there was, oh god there was.

He remembers the forbidding ache rising in his stomach as he realizes what happened. He remembers ice cold fingertips, and the excruciating beat of his heart in the small room. 

He remembers the red and white colors, and the rigid stature of who was before him, in a position that was in no way natural.

He remembers the smell of blood, a coppery smell when he took a deep breath through his nose. 

He remembers tasting salt, damp salt spilling it's way down his face, accompanied by the aggressive writhe of his body against the cold stiff one. He remembers ear-splitting sobs echoing their way off the walls of the enclosed space, only to realize they were coming from his own mouth.

He remembers the unbearable pull of un-careful hands, tainted, tormenting hands of the people he now spites pulling him away. 

He remembers so much, so much feeling, but not enough. Not enough to prove himself. Not enough to save himself.

He feels it still, all the time, he remembers everything. He remembers choking for air, and his own frenzied hands trying to weave their way into Frank's chilling ones.

To anyone else, he is a disgusting man, a man that can never be forgiven. - Or maybe he's a man they don't want to believe is telling the truth.

Things, morbid things, sickening things, can be done out of love, and can become something elegant, something beautiful. Art, it can be art, and art can be anything. Some people just don't get it. Horrific things can be morphed into euphoria, into something enticing. 

But, not everyone can be artists can they? Not everyone can understand exactly where the dark turns to light, and where the death turns to love. Of course, it wouldn't be fair for everyone to understand, which is the only thing keeping Gerard's mind from breaking. The only thing keeping him sane at this point. But it's not enough is it? It's not enough to keep him sane. He knows what he did wasn't wrong. He knows. He knows. How can he prove that to them? He'll do it the only way he knows how. The only thing guaranteed to solve all his problems at this point, the thing that started this all, and took everything from him. The blood-curling thing that most people run from he accepts with open arms. 

Death is coming for him, and he is ready.


End file.
